


Not Talking to Any of Us

by ofMindAndHeart



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Apologies, Confessions, Criticism of God, Crowley Deserves a Hug, Crying, Frustrated Crowley (Good Omens), Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Philosophical Angst, Other, Post-Canon, Religious Discussion, Softness, Swearing, Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23905666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofMindAndHeart/pseuds/ofMindAndHeart
Summary: “We can go as fast or slow as you want angel, but youhavetotell me.Where. This. Is.Going.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 120





	Not Talking to Any of Us

The first evening after the trials they had celebrated, that world was unharmed and they were still in it. The second evening they had relaxed, reveling in their prospective freedom from managers and memos.

It was now the third evening after the trials, and Aziraphale was worrying.

“But what if,” he intoned as he paced, already fairly sloshed. “Well, if we accept your general premise that the Archangels _don’t_ have special knowledge of the Almighty’s plan. And therefore, their assignments and heavenly duties were not necessarily always aligned with some perfect greater good.”

Crowley had draped himself across the bookshop’s backroom loveseat, eyes half closed. Tracking the angel’s pacing would just have made him dizzy.

“Then it naturally follows that _my_ actions when carrying out their assigned tasks were not necessarily strictly benefiting some greater good. And since blindly following orders does not excuse one’s actions... Oh, there are just so many times I might’ve done the wrong thing.”

Aziraphale twisted his fingers in front of him, expression pained. “The fourteenth century. All those plague victims, and orders to stop performing unauthorized healings. Not interfering with Sandalphon in Sodom. The humans are so prone to reading into that one. The Ark. Really, most of the mass killings will include some undeserved casualties. I mean, there have been _babies._ Even if most of a population is sinful, can you really say that about _babies_?”

Crowley half sat up so he could pour himself another drink. “You’re like a modern Martin Luther, ‘cept instead of reevaluating religious institutions after one decade of service it's more like six hundred of ‘em.”

Aziraphale _fwumped_ into a nearby chair and put his head in his hands. “How do you deal with having done the wrong thing?” he whined.

Crowley snorted. “Badly.”

The angel went still and Crowley realized the question might have been rhetorical. Or at least, intended as a general “you,” not a specific demonic demon “you.”

“Listen,” he said, as casually as he could manage. “Life goes fast if you let it. It’s a pretty good distraction, all things considered.”

“I don’t do fast.”

“Well _that_ is an _understatement_.” A little frustration leaked into his voice. Or maybe a lot. He was pretty drunk.

“Is — is that another wrong thing? Me not going fast?”

Something caught in Crowley’s chest, making things difficult. _No_ was the right answer. It was the patience Aziraphale needed. He should say _no_. But somehow he couldn’t do it.

“I like consistency. I like being able to accept changes at my own pace. Even if it puts me behind the times.”

“I know that-”

“And I know you’re mostly just teasing, about the clothes and the tartan and the-”

“Azira-”

“The old fashioned music and always going to the same restaurants-”

“Aziraphale, that’s not-”

“This past week and a half has just been so _much_ already, and I, it’s just, it’s like I can only take so much.”

“That’s perfectly understanda-”

“You don’t _like_ that about me. It’s confusing and frustrating. You’ve said so before.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t mean for you to take it like-”

“Finding the specific things I like and then _celebrating_ them is how I enjoy this world. We just went to very much trouble to keep it going and I’m certainly not about to-”

“Aziraphale!” he near shouted, finally cutting through the angel’s close to continuous babbling. Aziraphale looked up guiltily.

“This isn’t about music or restaurants or bloody _tartan_!” Somehow he was still shouting. “It’s not about that and you fucking _know it_. For G-, S-, you know what for _my sake_ , continually avoiding it all isn’t — it isn’t —“ He sucked in a breath. “We can go as fast or slow as you want angel, but you _have_ to _tell me_. _Where. This. Is._ **_Going_**.”

Aziraphale’s expression was ashen. 

Crowley swept aside some of the clutter on the coffee table between them, drawing an imaginary horizontal line with one finger. “Are we going to meet up once a week like we did while raising Warlock?” He gestured to the center of the line. “Or are we going back to just once a month?” He moved his pointing finger a few inches to the left. “Once a year? Once a decade?” He moved his hand further over. “Once every fifty years? Once a century?” He swept his hand back to the other side, just past center. “Can we see each other _more_ often, without jobs on the line?” He gestured even farther over, then faltered. “Can we — Can we — Can you…” He stumbled. 

Aziraphale sat rigidly across the way, tightly balled hands at his sides, staring fixedly at the table surface.

Crowley’s hand dropped.

“Am I going to get permanently kicked out of your life for even just naming it?”

That seemed to confuse the angel. His brow furrowed, still not looking up.

Crowley launched himself up to pace. It felt like an eternity of frustration had ballooned in his chest and it was all spilling over, all mixed together, whether or not it made sense, whether or not he wanted it to.

“Y’know, _humans_ at least got a whole book of rules about which lines they shouldn’t cross. A whole blessed _book._ Must be nice, to have at least _some_ idea of what’ll net ya eternal damnation and what won’t.

“I didn’t mean to Fall. If They had laid out nice little rules for us, then at least it would’ve felt like a damned _choice_. Like maybe intent mattered. But nah, treating free will and choice as some important shit is just for humans. S’not like They could have let us _know_ that asking questions was worth eternal fuckin’ silent treatment. That’d make it too _easy_.”

He might be a little too drunk.

“You’ve laid out one line so far. At the airfield. If stopping time hadn’t worked — if I wasn’t able to _‘do something’_ — that would’ve been enough. You’d have never talked to me again. Never.

“Should I _thank_ you for that? It’s more clear boundary setting than They ever did. Well done, I guess.”

Somehow the weight of it all hit him then, all at once.

He was going to cry. It was going to be fucking humiliating, and the only mitigating option was to get away from the angel before it started. He whirled and stalked out of the bookshop, made it down the steps to the sidewalk before a hand grabbed his arm.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale sounded shocked.

Crowley didn’t turn, facing away, holding very still. He focused his energy on not trembling. It mostly worked.

Then suddenly Aziraphale was in his space, arms wrapping around his middle, gently turning him. His chin thunked against Aziraphale’s shoulder before the movement had even registered.

He was trembling now. Stopping it was somehow slightly beyond him.

He thought Aziraphale might say something, but he didn’t. He just stood there, rubbing his back. It was more physical contact than they’d had in all six thousand years combined.

Eventually the tears escaped. Even not breathing didn’t stop it.

“M’sorry,” he stuttered. “Now’s not the right time, with you working through-”

Aziraphale squeezed him hard. “No apologies from you tonight. Not one.”

Crowley nodded.

“I am sorry. For what I said at the airbase.”

Crowley shrugged, trying to disengage, to move away, but he was pulled back in.

“I think in any less desperate circumstances I wouldn’t have said it.”

 _Not sure I believe you_ , Crowley thought.

“I can’t — I can’t make God be any less ineffable. I only have control of me.”

A pause. “It’s a somewhat new experience, getting to speak openly as this. I expect I’ll get used to it fairly quickly, relatively speaking.”

Crowley snorted. The angel had taken almost 500 years to come around to the Arrangement. Everything was at a different scale, for them.

“Come back inside?” Aziraphale asked tentatively.

Crowley hesitated. Privately, ( _very_ privately) a part of him would be happy to stay in the cold night air for hours if it meant Aziraphale would continue to hold him and whisper soft things. Yet the idea of overstaying his welcome with physical contact, even with the angel initiating, was a line he didn’t want to risk crossing. This time when he pulled away, Aziraphale let him.

He hurried inside, scraping away the tear tracks with both hands, then folded himself into a lump at one end of the sofa, newly sober, glasses jammed firmly in place. Aziraphale settled primly next to him, less than a foot away.

“Alright.” Aziraphale nodded to himself. “It seems like we should discuss boundaries, and how often we want to see each other, and any other changes we expect due to our unemployment.” He tapped a finger against his leg for each topic, then looked up. “Is there anything else we should cover right now?”

It was stunning, how straightforward he made it all sound.

“Oh, and I suppose if you’re up for it, we could clarify what you meant earlier, about us doing ‘more than’ simply spending more time together.”

Well shit.

Panic welled in his chest again. He’d wanted clearer communication, needed it, but somehow that leap of actually talking, of saying things, potentially the wrong things, and it being his fault when it all went wrong… How was he supposed to navigate this, through this fog of fear where everything looked wrong? How was he supposed to…

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, gently resting a hand on his shoulder.

He took a deep breath. One thing at a time.

“It’s possible,” he paused, “that certain ultimatums are going to hit a kind of… sore spot. That’s all. If we _can_ talk stuff through before jumping straight to ‘never speaking to you again’ then that would be, well…” he trailed off.

“That sounds doable. Completely reasonable, in fact.” Aziraphale hesitated for a long moment. “Is that something you’ve had to worry about with me before? Other than the time at Tadfield?”

“Uh, well, there might have been some times, in the aftermath of… it was probably about two decades after our first conversation about holy water. We weren’t talking, and we had spent so _long_ not talking, with no indication of that ever changing, and I thought maybe, that was just going to be it, ya know? You would just never come back. And then by the time three or four decades had gone by, with you still refusing all attempts at communication? It seemed... pretty likely actually.”

“But then, you showed up at Saint Dunstan’s in the forties.”

“That would have been worth doing either way. Rescuing you.”

“Either way. You mean even if I had kept ignoring you?”

Crowley shrugged, avoiding eye contact.

“So you’re saying you showed up to save me from discorporation, at great personal risk to yourself, injured your feet, killed the nazis, saved my books, all _for me_ , and you expected me to just be there, physically present, and just… not say anything? Not acknowledge what was happening?”

“Pretty much.”

“That would be awful.”

“No, it would be ineffable. Pretty mild actually, when it comes to ineffability. That’s what Heaven’s like for most people. What God is like too. Not big on two way communication, most of the time. And it’s not like you were going around drowning children. Silent treatment’s nothing.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale admonished, gently squeezing his shoulder. “I… Well, we’re talking now. Both of us together. We can ask whatever. In fact we _should_.” He straightened slightly. “How often do you want to spend time together, going forward?”

“Up to you,” Crowley answered immediately.

“I’m asking.”

“Still up to you. Whatever you want. Literally whatever you want.”

“Spending time with you is not a burden.”

“Aziraphale, you need space. You need time with your books and your cocoa and your pacing and just — generally time to cope and recover from how hectic this modern world is. And that’s fine. I’m not trying to intrude. I don’t want to overstep. I _never_ want to overstep, okay? The lines can be wherever, I just need to know where they _are_ , because…” he made a vague gesture with one hand “... because not knowing if I’ve messed up is... stressful, let’s say. And if I’m left to my own devices I’m gonna go too fast for you. We _know_ that. You’ve _said_ so.”

“Oh.” And then Aziraphale was gone, off among the shelves, audibly shifting through stacks of books.

It wasn’t exactly the response Crowley’d been expecting. Why was this so hard? Why was everything so-

A book was roughly shoved into Crowley’s hands, a bookmark sticking out partway through. Aziraphale perched next to him, fidgeting.

It was a novel, _The American_ by Henry James, and the bookmarked page had a passage with pieces lightly underlined.

> Mr. Babcock buried his head in both hands. At last looking up, “I don’t think you appreciate my position,” he said. “I try to arrive at the truth about everything. And then you go too fast. For me, you are too passionate, too extravagant. I feel as if I ought to go over all this ground we have traversed again, by myself, alone. I am afraid I have made a great many mistakes.”

And then, not far below, the opposing character responded.

> “Go your way, by all means. I shall miss you; but you have seen I make friends very easily. You will be lonely yourself; but drop me a line, when you feel like it, and I will wait for you anywhere.”

“Of course it was a bloody quote, you bastard.” Crowley struggled not to laugh. “You know I don’t do books, and certainly not ones like this.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to make any connections. I just didn’t realize how badly misconstrued it would be.” He shifted, embarrassed. “The way you live is so different from me. I don’t fit. Expanding my comfort zone takes so much time. I knew it would take me so long to catch up to you, if I ever did, and I didn’t know if you’d wait — or even _should_ wait — until I felt comfortable enough to meet you and move forward. I’ve just had so much to sort out on my own. Is it really worth-”

“You thought I might not wait for you?” 

Aziraphale hunched in on himself slightly.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley breathed in, then purposefully met Aziraphale’s eyes. “You do not need to live some flashy modern life in order for me to want to be around you. If you mean 'fast' as in cutting-edge lifestyle, then literally do not worry about it. Same if you mean 'fast' at sorting through Heaven’s shitty baggage. And if what you mean is 'fast' as in… as in…” he swallowed. “As in… _us_. Us going fast. Um, well, you don’t need to worry about that either. As slow as you want. Or a standstill, y’know? We don’t _have_ to change anything.”

Aziraphale stared.

“I’m serious. I don’t need… I don’t need anything. Except maybe just to _know_ where this’s headed, if anywhere. Clarify expectations a bit. That boundaries stuff.” He waved one hand about. “Maybe even like the Arrangement, if giving it a name helps. Hash out some kind of… Non-Ineffable Plan.”

“Non-ineff... Dear, you do realize effable is a word, don’t you?”

Crowley snorted. “Okay, _don’t_ say that out in public. Kids these days’ll think it’s something completely different.”

“I will take your word for it.” Aziraphale considered. “An Effable Plan. A clear, unambiguous, plainly laid out plan. That’s what we need. To be more Effable.”

“Angel,” Crowley worked to contain a snicker, unsure whether Aziraphale’s wording was on purpose. In this case his smile looked knowing, but you could never be sure.

Aziraphale ducked his head slightly. “Well, from my view, I think spending time with you is wonderful. And being around each other more would be lovely. And…” He hesitated, then reached to gently rest his hand on top of Crowley’s. “My guess is what you’re implying about ‘more than’ just spending time together is some kind of romantic involvement. Is that right?”

Crowley froze. Flinched. Felt a nearly overwhelming need to downplay, take it back, find some way to do this without feeling so _vulnerable_. “Only if… Only if you…”

“It’s okay, dear. No matter what, it’s okay.”

So Crowley took a deep, unnecessary breath, and nodded.

“And if I wanted to kiss you right now?”

Crowley’s startled look made Aziraphale laugh.

“You actually…?”

“I expect we’ll have quite a lot of things to talk about, to truly be on the same page. And there are certainly some things I don’t expect to be my cup of tea. But kissing sounds nice. Kissing _you_ , that is, sounds nice.”

Parts of Crowley’s brain were still being slow on the uptake. “You’ve thought about this?”

“For a few decades at least. Probably would have been longer, if the silly repression hadn’t been in the way.”

“Not silly.”

“Either way. Yes. I’ve thought about you quite a lot, actually.”

Slowly, Crowley removed his sunglasses. “You’re sure.”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely sure?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not pushing you into anything?”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale huffed, turned, and rested one hand along Crowley’s cheek.

Bless it all, he was on the verge of tears again.

They sat there a few seconds, eyes misty, smiles fond. Then they leaned towards each other, both at once.

There would be a lot to talk about, in the next days, and months, and years. But not right now. Not in this moment.

They were not in the business of moving in mysterious ways and not talking to anyone. This was not infinite stakes poker played in the dark. At least for that moment, as their lips touched, the twisting painful maze of past uncertainty faded into a feeling that instead was clear and bright and hopeful. Joyous, and certain, and a tiny bit _effable._

**Author's Note:**

> Choice of they/them pronouns when Crowley talks about God is based on Gaiman’s comment [here](https://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/186690791876/hello-im-very-sorry-if-someone-has-already-asked)
> 
> Credit to Kat Day for pointing out the Henry James quote [here](https://twitter.com/chronicleflask/status/1222485863189438465?s=20)


End file.
